Death Becomes Us
by The Emcee
Summary: Walking Dead universe. They had met on the highway while running from the infested city and have been together ever since. How they managed to survive for a year with Walkers everywhere was beyond Alfred. But now, he has to do the unthinkable, something he never thought he would ever have to do and something he never wanted to do: he has to kill Ivan. RusAme. One-shot.


Title: Death Becomes Us

Author: The Emcee

Summary: They had met on the highway while running from the infested city and have been together ever since. How they managed to survive for a year with Walkers everywhere was beyond Alfred. But now, he has to do the unthinkable, something he never thought he would ever have to do and something he never wanted to do: he has to kill Ivan.

Pairing: Russia/America

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: This is set in the _Walking Dead_ universe. And yes, it's also a death fic. Sorry. R&R. Enjoy!

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**Death Becomes Us**

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It all started when Ivan cut himself on that damn trailer hitch a few days ago.

He and Alfred had been running from a horde of Walkers in one of the many small towns they had passed through. Their food supplies had been running low and they had been looking through the various cabinets of various abandoned houses and stores that had been rummaged through and already pillaged. But one could never be too careful, so they looked through every single house and every single store they saw. Some of the houses and stores were empty; they had both figured as much. Food and other supplies were very limited and highly sought after by other survivors. That is, if there _were_ any other survivors.

Luckily, though, they had managed to strike gold at a few houses and some stores, but mostly houses though. Not that Alfred was complaining; he didn't do much of that anymore. Somehow, someway, he and Ivan had always made things work wherever they went. Things didn't always run smoothly – they were bound to have a few arguments considering that they were constantly on the run for their lives – but they had made it this far and for this long.

But during their last ransacking of an empty house, they had caused a lot of ruckus. Actually, it was Alfred who had caused a lot of ruckus and noise.

It had been an old house, both Ivan and himself had seen that when they first looked at it, but they went inside anyway. They didn't have an option to be picky over which houses to rummage through and which to pass up, not anymore. But they hadn't realized just how bad of a condition the house was in until Alfred felt through the second story floor and partially through the first story floor. Thankfully, he hadn't fallen all of the way through the first story floor because then he would have landed in the basement. A basement that was full of Walkers that had somehow been locked inside by whoever had last visited the house.

He had been terrified and had shouted to Ivan for help. Within seconds his lover had appeared and had managed to pull Alfred up and away from the disgusting, half rotten hands that had been grabbing at his legs. With his heart racing, he ran with Ivan out of the house and into the street, where they thought they would be safe. However, it seemed that all of the commotion he had made had alerted the Walkers outside. Many of them had begun to litter the streets, chasing after them with frevor, their dead eyes burning with a frightening hungry that only made Alfred move faster.

Following quickly after Ivan, Alfred turned around a corner of an alleyway. It was full of cars and trucks and they had to weave through them slower than either of them would have liked. Neither had the time nor the luxury to be careful or observant of anything aside from the Walkers and an escape route. That was when Ivan's leg his the truck hit. His skin tore, causing blood, hot and sticky, to pour from it down his leg, and fueled the Walkers' thirst for their flesh. And Ivan, as strong and resilient and tough as he was, hissed in pain and limped the rest of the way until they, by some miracle, lost the Walkers.

They managed to find a house a good distance away from the town after finally losing the Walkers. Ivan was panting and in obvious pain from the wound, which looked as bad as Alfred thought it did. It took a lot of make Ivan cry out in pain and he had been hissing and gasping and wincing ever since he had been hurt, so Alfred knew that it was bad.

Forcing Ivan to sit down in a recliner, Alfred blocked the front door with a bookcase that had been in the living room, another recliner, and two end tables that had been positioned on either side of the couch. He would have moved the couch there, but he knew that Ivan would need a better place to sleep that the recliner. Alfred was younger and not injured; he could afford to sleep uncomfortably.

After he had secured the front door as best he could, he went and did the same to the back door, just in case. With the kitchen table and chairs pressed tightly against it, Alfred was confident that they'd be okay for the night. Looking through the kitchen, he managed to find more food and was thankful for that, all things considered.

When he returned to the living room, he watched silently as Ivan inspected his wound. He cursed softly in Russian before he pulled his pants leg back down over it. Alfred could see that Ivan's jeans had torn when he had cut himself and that his wound was exposed. The fabric around it was stained red with blood and unfortunately they didn't have any clothes on them for Ivan to change into. Perhaps he'd be lucky and find something upstairs, but Alfred didn't want to leave Ivan alone for even a second. For some reason, although it was a cut and would, under normal circumstances heal, he had a nagging feleing in his gut about it. Pushing that feeling aside, he broke the silence.

"Don't you think you should clean that first, big guy?" Alfred asked Ivan as he walked into the room and crouched down beside him. Blue eyes met violet ones.

"Later. It's almost dark and we still have checked upstairs," Ivan replied and moved to get up.

"Woah, woah, woah! You should stay there and rest. That cut must hurt like hell or else you wouldn't be wincing," Alfred told him, his face serious and his eyes full of worry. Ivan waved his hand and gave Alfred a smile, a smile he didnt't buy for a second.

"Nyet. I am fine, Fredka. Is only a scratch, that is all. It will heal and be fine in a day or two," Ivan said. He stood up, but when Alfred refused to move out of his way as he headed for the stairs, he added, "I promise, sunflower. I am Russia; it takes more than little cut to stop us."

Alfred shook his head and laughed softly. "You Russians are more stubborn than us Americans."

"Da. It is in our blood," Ivan said. He pulled Alfred in his arms, arms that were far more muscular than Alfred's, and kissed him. It wasn't a passionate lets-have-sex-right-now-kiss, but it wasn't chaste and innocent either. And it made Alfred forget about that sinking feeling in his stomach.

When they parted, Ivan said, "We need to check upstairs."

"To see if the bed's still good?" Alfred joked half-heartedly, still worried.

"Silly sunflower. We have the couch," Ivan replied as he let go of Alfred and proceeded to head up the stairs. Alfred, naturally, followed after him.

They were in luck. The upstairs was all clear and Alfred even managed to find a pair of jeans that looked as though it might fit Ivan, which was a very good thing. Taking a few pillows and blankets off of one of the beds, Alfred made his way back down stairs and set up the couch for Ivan. He'd need the extra comfort after the day they had had and getting hurt on top of it...

Before the sun set, they ate a quick meal of Spaghetti-O's from two of the cans Alfred found in the kitchen and had a can of pears for dessert (Ivan seemed to like them more than peaches anyway). Ivan, it seemed, still hadn't cleaned the wound, but Alfred wasn't positive if he had or not. It was possible he had when he wasn't looking, but what water had he used and what did he use to clean it? So, the younger blonde was pretty sure his lover had neglected his cut. But he didn't bring it up; a cranky, grumpy Ivan was never a good thing, especially if he was hurting.

Instead, he laid down with Ivan on the couch until he fell asleep, then, with the hunting knife he had picked up a few months ago in hand, Alfred sat in the recliner and kept watch. It took him a long time to fall asleep, which was a good thing since he was keeping watch just in case Walkers tried to come into the house. None came to the doors though, or else Alfred would have woken up to them banging on the doors and he slept through most of the night - technically early morning as he was pretty sure he fell asleep around two or so.

What did wake him up was Ivan hissing loudly in pain. Startled, Alfred bolted right up and looked around, clutching in knife in his hand. When his eyes finally fell upon Ivan gingerly fingering his cut, which still looked red and even swollen. Ivan himself looked paler than normal and his hair was matted to his forehead. While it was warm, it wasn't so hot as to make someone sweat so early in the day.

"Are you okay?" Alfred asked him. Ivan glanced up at him before he probed his cut once more. Pulling his pants leg down, Ivan sat back up and gave Alfred a small smile.

"Just fine, Fredka," he said.

"Your cut doesn't look too fine, though," Alfred persisted. "It looks kind tender and swollen."

"Cuts usually do the day after. It will be better tomorrow," Ivan reassured him, his smile still in place.

"If you say so. But you're looking a bit hot under the collar, Vanya," Alfred said before he stood up and crossed the few feet between himself and Ivan. Before Ivan could say anything, he pressed one of his hands against the Russian's forehead. He was hot, burning up. That wasn't good.

"You've got a fever, Ivan! Still think you're fine?" Alfred asked him, arching a brow as he did so.

"It's nothing. I've had much worse," Ivan told him.

Alfred shook his head and let go of Ivan. "We're not going anywhere. You're staying right there on that couch. I'll get you some water, okay?" He left for the kitchen before his lover could object. He retrieved one of their few water bottles from a knapsack in the kitchen. Giving it to Ivan, he gently pushed the bigger man back down on the couch.

"Lay down now. You need to rest and try and get that fever down," Alfred told him.

"Sunflower, you are worrying too much. It's just a little fever," Ivan objected.

"Little fever my ass," Alfred retorted. He sighed and his expression softened. "We're holed up pretty tight here. We've got some more food now and water. We can stay here until you're better."

"The Walkers..." Ivan said.

"I can take care of them. They're not getting in here anyway and I won't go outside unless I absolutely have to," Alfred reassured him. "Now, rest. Maybe we still have some ibuprofen in one of our bags..."

"We used the last of our medicine during the winter, remember?" Ivan said.

"Shit, that's right," Alfred grumbled. "I forgot about that." He chewed on his bottom lip. One of Ivan's hands grasped one of his own.

"You're not going outside without me, da? So do not even think about it," Ivan said sternly, his face serious. Alfred sighed heavily and nodded.

"Fine. Drink your water," he said. "Try and get some sleep. I'll take another look upstairs. Maybe we over looked some medicine or something."

Doing what he said he'd do, Alfred made his way back up the stairs. He thoroughly checked the bathroom, looking in the cabinet behind the mirror, underneath the sink, and in the small closet that used to hold towels and stuff. Unfortunately, but quite expectedly, he came up empty handed. Whatever bottles of medicine there had been had already been taken. Sighing in defeat, he returned to the living room.

At least something right had happened: Ivan seemed to be sleeping soundly on the couch. An idea popped into Alfred's head. If Ivan was asleep, then he would never know if Alfred left to go looking for medicine for him since he did look worse for wear. Actually, this is the worst Alfred's ever seen his boyfriend. In the time that he's known him, Ivan's never, ever been sick and he's never been injured. Anyone they happened to come across during their trek from one town to the next usually avoided them simply because Ivan was so big and intimidating, both a good and bad thing. And if he's looking bad now, that must mean that he feels even worse so he definitely needs something in his system to help him fight off whatever he caught. Going outside was the only way to help his lover out and Alfred wouldn't go too far.

There was a house about five minutes from the one they were occupying now. All Alfred had to do was slip out a window, run over to it quickly, take a look around, and be back before Ivan woke up. A simple plan, easy to remember, and very doable. Yes, he had made a promise to Ivan, but he needed the medicine more than Alfred needed to keep his promise. Besides, Ivan would never know.

Going into the kitchen, Alfred opened the window and, as quietly as he could, wormed his way out of the house. Leaving the window open just a tad, he looked around to see if there were any Walkers nearby. There weren't. It didn't seem as though there was a living or dead soul anywhere near here. Good. Still being quiet - it never hurt to be careful in this day and age - Alfred made his way to the neighboring house.

Luckily for him, the back door had been completely removed from its hinges. Stepping inside, he checked the first floor. No Walkers. Going up stairs, knife in hand, Alfred checked each of the rooms on the second floor. Aside from the grotesque, decaying body in one of the smaller bedrooms, which he closed softly behind him, the second floor was clear. Making his way to the bathroom, Alfred rummaged through every nook and cranny, but there was nothing to be found.

Groaning in frustration, he returned down stairs and looked through the kitchen, just in case he found something, _anything_, in one of the cabinets. Again, nothing. Giving up, feeling defeated and even more worried now, Alfred headed out the front door. He grimaced when he realized that there was a decaying body sitting in a rocker on the porch, but he quickly made his way down the three steps and started back to Ivan.

Then he heard a creaking sound. He paused and listened. There it was again. It sounded like...

Turning around, knife at the ready, Alfred watched, wide eyed, as the body rose from the rocking chair and stumbled clumsily toward him. Bracing himself, Alfred stabbed the Walker in the head with his knife repeatedly until it fell to the ground like a great, heavy lump. He fought to not throat up as he pulled his knife free from the caved in head and wiped it on the grass. His skin prickled and he cringed; even after so long living in this hell of a world, Walkers still made him sick.

Quickly, he returned to the house, sneaking back inside through the window. Closing it and locking it, he made his way to the living room. Ivan was just the way he had left him: on the couch passed out. Gently, he touched his forearm. The Russian felt cooler now, cooler than Alfred as a matter of fact, but he took that as a good sign. If his fever was still raging, the rest of him would feel hot too right? Honestly, Alfred didn't know; he wasn't a damn doctor.

Sitting down in the recliner, Alfred watched Ivan, his thoughts drifting. He thought about Ivan, about who strong he had always been, about how he had automatically looked out for Alfred yet allowed him to grow and be useful in this new world of theirs, and about how he had always gotten them out of tight situations each and every time. They had met on the road, when Alfred was leaving New York City, and Ivan had saved his ass from the Walker that had killed his brother Matt right before his very eyes. Since then, Alfred's stuck to him like glue and Ivan hasn't seemed to mind it one bit.

They've met other people. One, a guy named Arthur, didn't seem that bad until he had tried to split Alfred's skull so he could have some meat to put in his stew. That had been horrifying and sometimes Alfred still had nightmares about it. Arthur, so far, had been the worst, but not the only bad person they had crossed paths with. A man named Basch had chased them, literally, out of the town he had claimed as his own, ignoring all of the damn Walkers, until they had left the town. He threatened them, saying if he ever saw them again, he'd shoot them and leave them for Walker fodder. Another man, named Gilbert, had actually seemed like a decent person until he tried to feed Ivan to the Walkers he kept in his basement because he thought it was funny to see them tear people apart. Sick bastard.

In the end, everyone they've met have been insane lunatics and Alfred was glad it was just himself and Ivan.

Without him even realizing it, Alfred had fallen asleep and he slept straight through the night, not stirring once. He woke up when the morning light filtered through the window. Sitting up in the recliner, he yawned and stretched. Then, he looked at Ivan.

He still hadn't moved, not even an inch, and he looked pale, practically gray...

Getting up, Alfred went over and pressed a hand against Ivan's cheek. He was cold as ice! A cold, choking fear ran down Alfred's spine. Paling considerably, the blonde stumbled away from Ivan, tripping over his own to feet, and fell to the floor. his heart pounded in his ears as he stared wide eyed at Ivan.

No...

No...no...no...no!

It...it couldn't be...it couldn't be happening.

This couldn't be happening! NO! Not like this! Never like this!

Ivan...Ivan was stronger than he was by far. He knew how to survive and what to do. He shouldn't...he couldn't...be dead... Not his Ivan, not the man he had fallen in love with... It just...it couldn't be.

Alfred didn't even realize that he was crying. Tears tumbled down his cheeks, staining his shirt. Snot trickled down to his trembling upper lip as his entire body shook with sobs. This wasn't right! None of this was right, not at all! Ivan couldn't be dead, he just couldn't be!

"Ivan?" Alfred asked, his voice croaking and quivering. Reaching out, he shook Ivan's arm as hard as he could. "Ivan!"

Ivan's arm jerked.

Alfred's entire body stilled. He didn't make a sound. He didn't remove his hand from Ivan's arm.

Ivan's body jerked again.

Alfred watched in horror, pure, unadulterated horror, as Ivan's once beautiful violet eyes opened. The whites of his eyes were so blood shot that they looked entirely red. The violet color stood out loud and clear against the red, a mockery of what had once been lovely.

Growling, Ivan's deadly eyes looked over. They fell on Alfred's weeping, still form. Another sound, one between a growl and a gasp, escaped Ivan as he surged forward to grasp Alfred. Immediately, Alfred let go of him and scooted back.

He watched in horror as Ivan's body fell to the floor. Heart pounding loudly, Alfred watched as Ivan managed to get on his knees, his movements jerk and clumsy and uncoordinated as he began to crawl towards the young blonde, crying out in hunger.

Clutching the hunting knife in his hand, Alfred croaked out a sobbing cry as he surged forward and stabbed Ivan in the head. With tears flowing down his cheeks, he continued stabbing Ivan's head until he could no longer see. Slumping backwards, Alfred sobbed loudly as Ivan's dead body slumped to the floor.

Ivan...Ivan was dead. He was dead. He had turned and Alfred had had to kill him. He killed the one person, the only person, he had left in this cruel, deadly world. He was all alone now. His lover, his savior, was now gone, gone like Matt was gone, gone like everyone else he had ever known was gone. Whatever that cut had done to Ivan had killed him and now he was gone.

Never again would he smile at Alfred.

Never again would he look at him with love in his beautiful violet eyes.

Never again would he moan sweet nothings in Russian in Alfred's ears as they made love.

Never again would he hold Alfred and tell him that he was only having nightmares and that Arthur was dead and they were far away from Basch.

Never again would he watch Alfred's back while they were out on the road.

Never again would he help Alfred secure down a house for the night.

Never again would he set traps to catch unlucky rabbits or whatever else happened to stumble into his snares.

Never again would Ivan be _alive_.

And...and he had tired to kill Alfred, eat him alive.

And Alfred had had no choice...none at all but to kill him, his lover and protector.

Now, he was all alone in the world.

Never before had Alfred cried as hard or as loud as he cried then and there, before Ivan's dead body.


End file.
